My Mother's Way
by Faithith01
Summary: Rated PG13 for language. One parter - From Joey & Pacey's oldest daughter's perspective.


There are some moments in one's life that just stick out more than others. These are the moments that make us...the defining moments. They can be ridiculously happy, or tragically sad. We all become different people at different times in our lives. It's what makes us unique, makes us interesting.

My moment would have to be when I was twenty-seven. I was home for Christmas, helping my mother in the kitchen with dinner. I love my mother, more than words could ever explain, but she's never been the kind of cook you brag to people about.

My father, on the other hand, has won awards. We own a chain of restaurants now, and the family couldn't be more proud of what he's given us.

I mention all of this because, even though my mother has caused cases of food poisoning on more than one occasion and my father has cooked for world leaders, it was still Mom's responsibility to take care of Christmas dinner. And it was always perfect. Always.

It was finally my turn to help with the tradition, and if I had anything to do with it, I was going to learn her dirty little secret. Because Lord knows, regardless of how much I love my mother, I knew that when she put that food on the table, some kind of magic had happened in the kitchen. My mom wasn't able to cook a ham on Easter, so what made her think I would just believe her turkeys always turned out perfect on Christmas?

Needless to say, I was more than a little scared of what might happen in that kitchen. It was understood by the rest of the family that no one, and Mom meant no one, was to step foot in the kitchen. If they needed something, they would just have to do without. Daddy had learned early on to keep a cooler full of beer next to his recliner in the living room, along with a stash of junk food inside the end table. My younger brothers would pilfer juice boxes, fruit snacks, and pudding cups weeks in advance, knowing if they didn't, we'd all starve waiting for Mama to finish up.

I can remember one year, before Daddy bought the extra large cooler, when he made the mistake of trying to get more beer from the fridge in the kitchen. Mama came at him wielding a cast iron skillet, damning his soul to hell if he took another step. I've never seen Daddy more scared in his life.

And here I was, stuck in the kitchen as my mother pulled out every pot we owned. Every bowl, every cooking utensil, and the fixings for a thirty-nine-course meal were all spread out on the counter and every other available surface. I silently commended Daddy for insisting on a large kitchen. "Mama," I whined, "What are you doing? Does it really take all this to make dinner?"

The entire family was out in the living room with Daddy, screaming obscenities, and whatever else came to mind. I knew how impatient they would get after the first two hours. I wouldn't have wished myself on the other side of that door for a million dollars. There would be all out war about an hour before dinner, and something would end up broken. And we couldn't forget the yelling. The Witter/McPhee/Leery clan can't do anything without yelling.

"Jen, if there's one thing I know, it's Christmas dinner. Now just trust me. Hasn't every Christmas dinner been perfect?" Josephine Witter tied on her apron. She was beautiful at 52, even more beautiful than she had been at 21, if her husband had anything to say about it. Her hair was gray now, but she didn't mind that. She had raised five children, four of them boys, and she would have thought there was something wrong if she hadn't gained a few gray hairs from her babies. Jen, her only daughter, named for the one woman in Joey's life that she had trusted just as much as her own sister, was her pride and joy.

"Yes, and I'm almost afraid to find out why they always are perfect. I love you, Mom, but you can't boil water without ruining a pan."

"I don't ever remember hearing you complain about my pancakes." She turned and poured an indiscernible amount of flour into a bowl.

"Daddy gave me ten dollars to eat them every time you made them," I told her, hiding my grin behind a glass of wine. "He said he didn't want us to hurt your feelings."

"That cheat!" Mom exclaimed, slamming the bowl down, scattering flour everywhere.

I slid a finger into my glass of wine, lifting out a clump of white powder. "He just wanted you to think that we loved them, and they weren't always that bad. Sometimes, you did get them right, Mama." I ducked, seeing that she had turned to pick up the same cast iron skillet she had threatened my father with so many years before. "Mama?"

"You guard the door, Jennifer. I'm going after your father." Mom tiptoed over to the door that separated the family room from the kitchen. "Pacey Witter," she called through the gap that was made as she pushed the swinging door open. "If you value your life, you'll run, and run far!"

I laughed as Mom ran through the room, chasing my father with the pan. My brothers, chose sides, two yelling for Mom to bash him with the pan and the other two telling Mom that whatever Dad did, it was probably worth it.

"Wait! Jo, wait!" My dad grabbed his side, panting. There was love, sprinkled with not a little fear, and something in me shifted. My father has always been handsome in my eyes, but was doubly so when he looked at my mother with love on his face. "Why are you trying to kill me this time? Don't I get an explanation at least? After all these years, I'd like to think I deserve that much."

My mother looked at me, an evil glint in her gaze, telling me she was about to rat me out. I tried to back my way through the kitchen door, but the oldest of my brothers, Corey blocked my path.

"No way, Sis. I saw that look. Shit's comin' down, and I want to see Dad chase you with that pan."

I looked at him with all the dignity I could muster. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Well, Pacey, darling," I heard my mother say, after my lie of omission. "Your daughter was kind enough to tell me about your little deal with them concerning my pancakes. How long have you been paying them off?"

Dad's eyes shifted to mine, and then to Corey behind me. Recognizing the signal, I turned quickly and grabbed him as he tried to make his way into the kitchen. "No way, Bro," I mocked. "You saw the look. Shit's comin' down. We wouldn't want you to miss it, now would we?" I turned back to my parents, and watched as Kyle tried to make a clean break. "Daddy!" I yelled, causing Kyle to look back. "Kyle's making a run for it! Don't let him put all the heat on you!"

Daddy moved quicker than I ever thought he could, grabbing his youngest son around the waist. "I'm your father, I brought you in to this world, and I'll take you out. You're not running out on me now, boy."

I watched with a smug smile on my face as Holden and Mitchell sat back down on the sofa, resigning themselves to the matter at hand.

"Jen," my father said, turning to look at me again. "Why'd you tell your mom about our arrangement. It was supposed to be like the military. Don't ask, don't tell."

I shrugged, pretending defeat. "Sorry, Daddy. I figured it's been long enough now. Mama would have found out eventually."

"I was hoping that could have waited until I was dead." Pacey Witter ran a hand through what hair he had left, and released Kyle, giving him a look that told him he could run if he wanted to, but he wouldn't get very far. At 53, my father was every bit the man he was in his younger years. Charming to a fault, wickedly handsome, and hopelessly devoted to every last one of his brood.

"Oh, Daddy, don't be so morbid. Anyhow, we have dinner to make, don't we Mama?" I smiled at her as she nodded, dropping her arm to her side, letting the pan hang from her hand. "If it makes you feel better, you can bill me for all the pay off money, Daddy." I shoved Corey out of the way, and followed my mother back into the kitchen. "Well, that was fun," I commented, sitting on a stool in front of the counter.

Mom only murmured in agreement as she added water to the flour she had dumped into the bowl before we took our detour to the family room. She checked her watch, and grumbling something about turnips, she grabbed a package of green Kool-Aid.

"Mom-" I started, but she shushed me.

"You'll see," was all she said. She ripped open the drink mix and added it to the flour and water, turning the whole thing green. And then she grabbed a hand mixer.

If ever there was a moment that I thought my mother might be in need of serious mental help, it was this one.

Turning the mixer on high, she brought the beaters down to the mixture of water, flour, and Kool-Aid, splattering clumps all over the kitchen. I watched in astonishment as she smiled through the mess, letting it splatter on her clothes, her face, dishes, and me included.

"Uh, Mom?" I managed, finally finding my voice. "Are you sure you're doing that right?" I knew for a fact she wasn't, having inherited my father's culinary talents, but this was something my mother and I didn't discuss. We jokingly referred to it as the one thing she couldn't be proud of in me, even though I knew she was. I've always been able to make my mother proud, just by breathing.

"I'm doing exactly what I do every year," she stated simply, expecting me to accept this. "It's time you learned my secret, sweetheart."

I poured us both another glass of wine. The other glasses were ruined now, having huge, green blobs of congealed flour floating in them. "What secret, Mom?"

"I like to call it the 'Christmas Dinner Conspiracy.'" She sat down at the small breakfast table that faced the windows. "I spend six hours in the kitchen on the day after Christmas, seemingly exhausting myself cooking this elaborate dinner for the entire family, and you all spend six hours in the family room, watching TV and arguing with each other." She smiled, laughing at a secret joke. "Your father likes to tell me it's a raw deal, but I know he only says this so I don't really beat him over the head with that pan." She gestured with her glass towards the piece of metal in question.

"It is a raw deal, Mom. You don't have to spend all day in here cooking by yourself, I would have gladly helped, and so would Dad," I explained to her, picking bits of flour off my tee shirt. "And anyway, have we ever used that pan for anything but chasing Daddy?"

Mom laughed. "No, we haven't. And I know you would help. I would have let you, if I hadn't discovered this neat little trick." Mom leaned back her chair, sighing contentedly as she did so.

"I finally get to know how you do this every year?" I asked, leaning forward, way more excited than I ever thought I would be.

"It's my legacy, darling. From me to you, but before I tell you, you have to promise to me you'll never tell a soul." She looked at me, straight in the eye, stopping my laughter before it even bubbled up. She was serious, and I was about to promise to help her keep this secret.

"I promise, Mom. I swear on my life." Sweat formed on my forehead, and for a few seconds I felt as though I was taking the world into my hands. This moment was my defining moment. I was about to become a woman in my mother's eyes, and I would have given anything for that.

She smiled then, brightly. "I order in," she confessed. "Right down to the damn dinner napkins!" She laughed at this, immensely amused.

I sat back, confused. "Wait." "I held up a hand, keeping her from saying anything else. "You order in?" I asked, incredulously. "Here I am, thinking you've been taking cooking classes on the side or something, and save it all for this one day. I was all ready to guard some national secret about turkey molecules or something equally absurd, and you tell me you 'order in?'"

"I order in," she stated again, simply.

I forced myself to accept this. I knew my mother couldn't cook, and this only supported that fact. But part of me still wanted to believe in magic and small miracles. Sighing, I realized I could. She's been keeping this secret for more than 25 years now, and not a soul knew until today. "Okay, so what do you do for six hours in here then?"

"Well," she lifted her arms up, stretching. "Sometimes, I drink way more than I should, and other times I lock the door and take a nap. A couple of times, I locked the door and walked to the movies. Took in a double feature. You all were still in the living room when I got back, arguing about the same game or the same movie or whatever it is you all do out there. This day is my day to completely relax. So, I order in, make a huge mess, and then the whole lot of you clean it up later."

I looked at her, expecting to feel betrayed at her need to lie to us about taking a day for herself, but I couldn't muster it. Our mother had always dropped everything to make our issues the most important thing in her day, and never once did we offer her time off. I've never said to her, 'Take a vacation, Mom, you deserve it.' We've never offered to let her have that day. And instead of calling us on our selfishness, she's taken this day all on her own, all the while pretending to devote another day to us. "Mom," I said, my eyes filling with tears. "I love you."

She patted my hand, her own tears blurring her vision. "I love you, too, darling."

She knew I understood, and that was the moment I became a woman to her. This moment in which I realized that my mother was only human, but still had the capability of giving us all magic. She gave us this dinner, letting us think that for one day, she became a master chef and cooked her heart out for us.

And while she was just duping us all, and taking a day for herself, she was giving us something so much more valuable. She was giving us those uninterrupted moments together in the family room. She was giving us a relaxed and carefree mother at the end of the evening.

She was giving us a Christmas that could be rivaled by no other.

So, as I sit here in my own kitchen, the day after Christmas, making noise and a God-awful mess, I remember those moments in my mother's kitchen, making green flour and purple mashed potatoes. I can still hear my father grumbling about the carrots and gravy on the ceiling and that sticky spot on the tile that never came clean. While it may seem unorthodox and maybe even a bit pretentious to others, this is my mother's way, and I wouldn't change it for anything.


End file.
